


Narcissus

by Dionysisch



Series: Inevitable destruction [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Philosophy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 03:24:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1453654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dionysisch/pseuds/Dionysisch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bite chunks out of me, you're a shark and I'm swimming."</p>
<p>Of blindness, miscommunication, longing and devotion.<br/>Jim. Sherlock. Dual POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Narcissus

> _Bite chunks out of me,_  
>  _You're a shark and I'm swimming._  
>  _My heart still thumps as I bleed_  
>  _And all your friends come sniffing._  
>  (Tessellate - Alt-J)

  
Jim does not laugh, he _giggles_.

The difference is subtle and yet reveals a sense of abandonment and trust that Sherlock finds hard to accept, moving beyond his wounded pride and confusion. It makes Sherlock step back for a moment and observe him, distracted by the interference of his pulse skyrocketing because of a contact of lips that was an aggression, a demonstration and a hardly satisfied impulse. Jim is small and dangerous with a knife moving quickly between his hands as he chops vegetables, and his shoulders tilt slightly with every wave of that childish, vaguely high pitched sound rippling out of him. He giggles, dear God. As if he had no care in the world, no deep thoughts weighing him down, no defense or image to uphold in front of Sherlock for the sake of theatrics. It sounds horribly relieved, the release of pent-up desire and flattery compressed in a performance that is real. Unique. Unstaged. Jim Moriarty is not performing but rather being in front of him, and the realization forces Sherlock to shut up and swallow his pride, to put on the side for a moment the stinging curiosity and unsatisfied desires of a bare brush of lips.

If Jim were not giving him his shoulders, he would see his hands shaking slightly. He would notice his eyes sparkling with a liquid desire and disbelief. He would see his hands clenching more tightly the knife to repress the instinct to touch the realest, most existing part of himself that Sherlock has gifted with the property of being. He is his body, his soul is packed in his lips and he feels as if Sherlock has tried to unlock his mystery and kiss his thoughts a little. Even if for a moment only, even if frustrated and torn by desire and confusion. Do you want me? Do you need me- Chop. Chop. Chop. There is a pile of onions and peppers and aubergines in neat perfect tiny little cubes and Jim keeps cutting, wishes to let that ridiculous smile disappear off his lips. But God, he is not in possession of his body anymore. Has never been. When you spend your entire life performing an ever-shifting impression of life, it is hard to pinpoint exactly what is constant, what is real about yourself. Even your face becomes more and more fictional with each day. But Sherlock has kissed his lips. His lips are there. His tongue casually drags along his lower lip. Wicked, wicked Jim.

 

The space between Jim and Sherlock is a fictional arena of conflict the world has imposed upon them, caging the hero and the villain in boxes and expectations. The narrative of the good overcoming the evil, the stereotypical nemesis, the guns, the explosions, the moral compass. Stage furniture for a small, predictable performance for a blind, clapping audience. It makes Jim want to laugh until his skin falls off and he is a skull with teeth and horrible bones and a wicked mind - and isn’t Sherlock just the same, after all? In the secluded dimension of an apartment in East London time does not exist. Sherlock comes to notice that night alone, when he wanders through the living room and he observes an absence that has never come to assume any relevance to his mind. There are no clocks, Jim does not have a watch on his wrist. His thin wrist...

Even Sherlock is capable of understanding the paradox of a criminal mastermind hiding in such a small framed, pleasing form. Pleasing, he finds himself thinking in the same space of time in which he wishes to grab that wrist. To wrap his fingers around it. And it would not be with a sense of betrayal and malice, but rather a ferocious curiosity and desire that he would assess Jim’s existence. How does your heart beat? Does it beat? Do I have any influence on you? I want to have an influence on you. Sherlock does not yet understand the depths of his craving for power, but he knows that if he were to touch Jim again, he would want to feel his heart beating madly beneath his fingers.

 

They have eaten dinner with no sound and no time. Possibly no space, too. The thought is rather comforting, for Jim. It seems for once to be possible to touch the ground and walk, rather than tread lightly on the wooden platform of an imaginary stage where he is victim and predator and playwright. In the white cosmos of his flat Sherlock keeps his gaze peeled on his, watches him eat, murmur quietly something about the amount of salt on the aubergines. He know he is not really listening, not really understanding. It is not painful to retreat in silence again, does not feel like a defeat. What he feels, rather, is a soothing sense of comfort and burning curiosity forcing his soul between the conflicting need of sitting and observing, and the desire to have Sherlock doing something.

They walk to the living room in the same silence. He is a few inches ahead of Sherlock, sits on the couch knowing that the detective has not stopped observing him for a moment. Do something, do something, do something. Please. Sherlock is sitting next to him and he thinks of religion. Of Catholic school and Jesus and God and miracles. Of waiting for signs in a world of despair, the fleeting moments of grace that do not last quite long enough and yet leave you hopeful and loving. Faithful, devoted. Don’t they all look for signs? He has scattered himself soul and brain and in each meeting point, in each case he has built his belief. Utter, complete, selfless devotion. All he needs, all he prays for. And when that merciless, unaware god turns to him again, when he chases him - Jim feels a little lighter, a little less in despair. It never does last quite enough to drag him out of himself, and for that Jim hates him. Thoughtless, undeserving Sherlock.

Sherlock who wants clever things and yet does not grasp the depth of his need. Jim is sitting next to him with his hands on his knees, and Sherlock ignores what to do, has no idea how to proceed from now. His vanity has always been flattered and exhilarated by the gleam of Jim’s eyes, the cases have fueled his ego and trained his mind - and yet to understand desire beyond those terms, to dig deeply in what those eyes are demanding of him, in the bottomless pit of Jim’s brain is terrifying. This is not clever, this is reckless and unfathomable. It makes Sherlock doubt himself, for a moment.

“Forty-eight. Lies about her age, has been for the past ten years. Going through a divorce. Recently visited... Nicaragua,” he delivers quickly. He goes with what he knows, with the blatant signs of a devotion that he craves. He needs the appreciation, the admiration, the need he has breathed and learned from Jim and Jim alone. Praise me, look at me. Don’t you want me, James? He has shifted on his seat to the point in which his fingers are lightly brushing against Jim’s leg and his lips are dangerously close to his ear.

Cheap, attractive, terrifying Sherlock. His tricks tap into his vulnerable, venal attraction and Jim finds himself slightly overwhelmed, extremely disappointed, vaguely aroused. Sherlock speaks and it is in low waves that he can reconstruct mentally as they build in his throat - that beautiful, beautiful neck - dragging along his lips. Overpronounced, strategic. Hateful. Oh, so beautiful. The hand against his thigh burns, makes Jim almost shake in rage with the need to shake it off, or tremble in desire as he only wished to melt and entirely abandon himself to the touch. He does neither. Wishes to scream at Sherlock for being so disgustingly predictable, or beg him to do more. He wants more, needs more. And that is just not trying hard enough. What does he even know about aimlessness and cosmic loneliness? What does he know about needing a release, a contact, a constant in this universe that is ever-shifting and magnifying distances and loneliness? A kiss is not going to save him. And yet Jim longs for that, too. Try harder, Sherlock

“What?” he asks, stops himself from turning and meeting Sherlock’s face at such a close, uncomfortable, unnerving distance.

“The guest.”

They are watching a talk show. The flat screen is alight in the colorful show of kids and school and uniforms. Makes him wonder about young James. It’s a curious thought that makes Sherlock furrow his brows for a second, distracted in his train of thoughts. The woman keeps talking. Tan and smiling. Stress, hair thinning. Less shiny and glossy that it was meant to look.

“Oh. Someone has been paying attention.”

“I always pay attention. It’s my job.”

“It’s a TV show, Sherl.” Jim grins.

“So was Connie Prince.”

Jim grins even wider. Frowns immediately when he realizes what Sherlock’s train of thought could be moving towards. And however romantic or flattering it is to know that the man’s brain is always overworking in the attempt to predict, understand and aim at his next move - oh, how nice to be wanted so badly - Jim feels emptied for a moment. Why does everything have to be clever? Why can’t it be just mindless entertainment, quiet enjoyment of each other’s presence?

“I would not repeat myself.”

He replies, the line of his lips is harder and his jaw clenches. Sherlock moves closer, making Jim hold his breath as his hand moves to his shoulder. Rests there.

Before he can do or say anything Jim is escaping from his hold, lifting himself up.

“Tired.”

He announces, yawns. “Why Nicaragua?” he asks, almost talking to himself as he walks out of the living room, to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock no time to show off and brag about his knowledge of airport timetables and popular travel destinations in mid April.

 

He has been alone for long enough to regret his career choices, his presence, the deduction, Nicaragua. He does not know about the kiss, part of him is almost starting to indulge in the belief that it was a reverie, a product of an overworked, tired brain. Jim has given no signs of acknowledgement, and Sherlock has not been capable of reading through him a truer, more genuine response than that unnerving giggle.

He is missing entirely the point, Jim knows. He does not understand the entity of his gesture, does not quite manage to comprehend the damage and wound he has opened in the veil of indifference and pretense of being Jim puts up. Is he using him? Is he trying to get at something, or better, experimenting on the vulnerabilities and pathetic sense of need of an unusual criminal? He has shown him glimpses of a truth he had secluded access to himself in the first place. Jim tests his God rather than waiting for his God to show himself. Rather than being tested by God himself. How could he, when all he has ever done in life is give himself to him and jump, jump, jump have faith and take leaps into a nothingness that is absolutely real but feels less frightening because he could tend his hand to him, hold him afloat? There is bitterness and the repress sting of burning tears he has forgot the shape or feel against his face when he takes off his clothes one by one. Unbuttons his shirt, lets his trousers brush past his narrow hips. He puts on clothes that are meant to be comfortable and soft but feel like another skin, another pretense to take part on. The sleeping, depressed, vulnerable criminal.

“Jim.”

He remembers Sherlock has never left because the door of his flat has never shut. But it takes him what feels like minutes, hours, ages to process the fact that Sherlock is standing in front of him. He is ridiculously barefoot, tired, his hair has been messed up by nervous hands running through it and in the dim light of his bedroom his eyes look even more sunken and sleepless than usual. Jim. He is Jim, and Sherlock is calling his name. Sherlock has both his hands on his shoulders and looks at him, tries to read him, to decipher him. But he is a code with no solution - or one that too easily screams how desperately he wants to be understood, and he melts, he crumbles. Sighs against Sherlock’s chest, closes his eyes as he hides his face, his entire soul. Wishes to shut himself down in that exact moment, to have the last sensorial information to hit his brain to be nothing but Sherlock’s smell.

“Why haven’t you left? Doesn’t mother John check up on you anymore?” he taunts him. He is bitter and mean and wounded. And yet he does not manage to sound proud, or to peel himself off Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock’s face hardens but Jim has no chance to witness it. He does not really mind when his hands are still holding him steady. Why don’t you leave, Sherlock? Don’t leave. Leave. Destroy me. Take all the pieces and mark them and never let me down. Not again.

What Sherlock feels is, for the most part, anger. Confusion, disbelief. He hasn’t left because there is no other place for him to be. Because his brain keeps nagging at him, and so does his pride. Because he wants, he wants, he wants so much he imagines himself like the most ruthless and blood craving beast. Except that he does not crave blood but for something quite abstract and yet painfully real. Jim, Jim, Jim. He wants to be desired. He wants to solve him, to decipher what he does not see, and move closer, always closer, magnify his soul and atoms and break them down. He ignores John, the snark, the bitterness that he can sense in his tone and that cuts through him like a knife where Jim is resting his head. He does not seem to breathe for a moment.

“There is no other place for me to be.”

“Since when? You do have plenty of locations, Sherl. The entirety of London is at your feet. St Bart’s. The Yard. Your flat. Isn’t that enough?” Leave. Don’t leave. Never leave.

“I want you.”

There. Sharp and real, real, real. To say is to do, and as his tongue wraps around those few syllables Sherlock realizes the entity of his desire, puts his mind at peace and is defeated in his pride. He wants Jim. The horror, the rage. His ridiculous, mindless giggling nature. His brilliance. He wants it, he wants it all and there is no other way to put it.

It only serves to set fire to Jim’s rage, to the weight of years of waiting, needing, waiting - of false miracles and disappointed expectations. Sherlock has failed him so many times, and to believe him now feels too easy, too simple - too kind, perhaps. For Sherlock and for his own sense of destruction. It is sweet to long for something distant, after all. How to cope with Sherlock’s voice vibrating through his chest - how to cope with his words?

“No, you don’t. You want to be entertained, Mr. Holmes. And I’m a good performer. That is all.” He tries, forces himself to break free of Sherlock’s hold. He has to fight his growing fascination with the warmth radiating from that body that is so unbelievably real, he has to fight against Sherlock’s tight grip. He is not released.

“No.”

_No! He says no!_ Jim’s conscience screams somewhere. He laughs, but it might as well be the sound of the most painful scream. Signs are, after all, nothing but conventions upon which users agree.

Sherlock’s hands have shifted from his shoulders to his temples. He is gently forceful, lifting his head from his chest and forcing Jim to look at him. Holding his head, holding his thoughts. One track of Sherlock’s head keeps reminding him that this is the closest he will ever get to physically grasping Jim’s thoughts. Another is simply stuck on the feel of those shoulders against his hands. Surprisingly small.

“I do find you terrifying and impossible to decipher, Jim. Perhaps that is why I wish to be close to you.”

Somewhere along his bitter laugh Jim has thought the same, excruciating thought. Sherlock is holding his thoughts and they seem to be traveling at an inhuman speed, far too clear, far too sharp not to be painful.

“Oh. Am I your experiment, then?” He asks, eyes wide. Falsely naive. Mocking. Cruel.

“You’re being childish.” Sherlock scolds him, causing another fit of laughter from Jim. This is different from the giggle that had poured out of him in the kitchen. This is wild. Sad. Crooked. Jim’s hands tremble only for a moment when he lifts them to mime Sherlock’s pose. His gestures are unkind, his grip on the detective’s curls is tight. Too tight. Sherlock doesn’t wince, stares at him.

“What am I, then?” Jim whispers, and the sound comes out like a hiss.

“A kindred mind. Possibly the closest I will ever get to myself. You seem to understand in a manner that goes beyond words and conceptual schemes.”

Jim sighs. His grip does not soften but it does seem needier, rather than merciless.

“I do understand you, Sherlock.”

“I am glad you do. It feels less lonely.”

“Doesn’t it?”

He murmurs, and Sherlock wonders if what he’s heard between those few syllables Jim has pronounced is a suppressed sob. The thought is quickly extinguished when he perceives a slight shift in Jim’s hold as he’s lifted himself on tiptoes. Barefoot, tired, small Jim is closer to him now and Sherlock closes his eyes, reaches him, lets him kiss him, wants him to. It goes beyond his vanity and pride. Beyond his need to be wanted, desired and appreciated in his genius and the tricks of a pleasing voice and interesting looks. He wants Jim closer, needs him to reach and nullify a distance of misunderstandings and schemes that do not belong to this timeless universe.

It starts soft, hesitant even.

Jim has hardly any memory of kissing anybody, or ever wanting it with such an intensity to his being that shakes him from the core, makes him almost feel sick and desperate. He clings to Sherlock with delicate cruelty, his hands dropping to his shoulders, fingers digging in the fabric of his shirt as he lifts himself up. Breathes. There’s only air and a few millimeters between him and Sherlock and, with his eyes closed, Jim thinks of this space as a sacred veil between the divinity and the devoted. He believes, to the point of elevation. He trusts Sherlock and his fascination, his mind. He trusts him to understand how desperately similar they are. He must know they are the same.

Jim sighs, leans in right when Sherlock does the same. It seems to last ages but it’s just a moment, their lips touching, breaths colliding. Jim stills against Sherlock’s lips with a faint smile and his heart thumping with a quicker rhythm against his ribcage.

Sherlock’s response is quicker. More curious, more demanding. A series of pecks that becomes more and more insistent, brazen, before an infectious idea sneaks its way into the stream of his thoughts. Do I have power over you? Do you want me? Those lips on his are not enough, and Sherlock keeps his eyes closed, brings his hand to Jim’s chest. Waits. Grins, proud, vain, when the response is a sped up pace. Jim is frail and alive under his touch and he thinks with fascination of the physiology of an attraction he barely manages to fathom. It makes him ferocious, more daring.

A mental storage of information on french kissing (why French, of all things? Yes, history...) gives him only the coordinates of an act that, for him, springs only from the wish to devour and absorb and completely own the man he is holding tight. His hands are further messing up Jim’s hair, long fingers digging in the black strands of his hair, pulling mercilessly. The brush of tongues is extremely experimental. Confused but armed with the most wicked determination on Sherlock’s part.

Jim simply gives in. Dives into his own martyrdom and sacrifice with inexplicable joy, silently begs Sherlock to do anything he wants with him, to him - to destroy or kiss or break him down. Anything to soothe the rage of his brain. Whose brain? Mine, yours. I, you. He yields to Sherlock’s kiss, he simply does so. He sighs into it, and it’s a mess, a confused, raging tangle that makes him stop breathing until they manage to set up a less violent, less primitive pace.

He wonders whether Narcissus felt the same when he drowned in kissing his own reflection.


End file.
